


Cut Off Your Nose To Spite Your Face

by Savageandwise



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, McLennon, Mild period typical racism, OOC, Period-Typical Homophobia, Work of fiction, not reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 05:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: John reacts to the announcement of Paul's engagement to Jane.





	Cut Off Your Nose To Spite Your Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whereitwillgo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereitwillgo/gifts).



> Whereitwillgo said write about spite.
> 
> This is my 50th mclennon fic. I can't believe it...seems like only yesterday I was worrying about posting Throw The Wine, thinking no one would notice it. And now I'm posting my 50th fic. Thanks for reading!

“Isn't this what's supposed to happen?” Paul asks in bewilderment. He hands John a glass none too gently, splashes water onto his naked chest.

John is sprawled in bed, his prick limp and slick. His skin is pink with post-coital flush.

“Ta,” he says, wiping himself off with a corner of the coverlet. He takes a sip of water and places it on the nightstand.

“Well, isn't it?” Paul presses.

“Supposed to happen?” John asks, rolling his eyes. “Four years of mind-numbing boredom...” John checks the imaginary watch on his wrist. “...ah...right on schedule. Time to get engaged. And on Christmas day no less, the height of romance.”

Paul purses his lips in irritation. “All I meant is it can't have been a surprise. I'm not even sure why you're so cross. It doesn't change a thing for you. I'm the one getting married.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, crosses his arms defensively.

John lights a cigarette. He burns his fingers on the match and lets it drop to the floor. Bristling with irritation, he bends over the edge of the bed to retrieve it.

“Leave it,” Paul says shortly.

John takes a drag off his ciggie and lets the ash fall to the carpet deliberately, his eyes trained on Paul's face. He's provoking him blatantly but Paul doesn't even blink.

“You're married,” Paul points out.

There's an expression on his face that's so raw, so exposed, like an unprotected wound he can't stop prodding. John wonders if he's jealous of Cyn. If that's what this is all about. He wants to tell him he needn't be. He puts a hand on Paul's leg, strokes the dark hair there.

“You have a kid,” Paul continues. He moves his leg abruptly, pushing John's hand away. 

“Tell me something new,” John says with a shrug. He sticks the cigarette between Paul's lips absently. He doesn't want to talk about his marriage, he doesn't want to talk about Jane. He wants to be with Paul without their baggage.

“Maybe I want a family too. Maybe I want all that. Maybe I don't want to be the one queer out of four,” Paul says angrily.

John can't help laughing out loud.

“Oh, get fucked!” Paul exclaims. He takes the half-smoked cigarette out of his mouth and leans over John to drop it into his water glass.

“Hey!” John sits up straight. “Who says you're queer?”

“People,” Paul says sulkily. “Why aren't I married yet? That's what they want to know. Why am I the only one left?” 

You are queer, John thinks. So am I. Some of the time, anyway. What else would you call this? He doesn't dare say the words out loud though. They never put it into words. The way they can't stop touching each other. The way they're in each other's souls. There are no words to describe it anyway. John runs his thumb down the inside of Paul's thigh.

“Who cares what they say?” he says at last. 

Paul looks down at John's hand and frowns but he doesn't push him away this time. “Says the man who beat Bob Wooler within an inch of his life,” he reminds him.

“Man called me queer.”

“My point exactly.”

John shrugs, slides his fingers over Paul's hip bone distractedly. Then curls them against his balls and finally grips his cock firmly and teases it hard. Paul closes his eyes, swallows and then lets out a shuddering breath. 

“When you're married…” John says haltingly. He's unable to let go of the nagging feeling that everything is ending. That he's already lost Paul.

“Nothing has to change, John!” Paul exclaims. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“You haven't said it!” John fires back, pulling away his hand abruptly. “Not once! Not a single ‘John I'm getting married but I still...you're still...we…’”

Paul looks so comical with his flushed face, eyebrows arched, mouth agape. His stiff cock. John almost laughs in spite of his anger. And then Paul leans forward and puts his hands on John's chest. He puts his mouth on the spot where his pulse jumps unevenly. Then he takes John's hand and puts it on his cock. He finds John's mouth, kisses him hotly. 

“John, I'm getting married…” Paul says between kisses. “But I still want you...we're still…” 

John strokes him until he's shuddering against him, his breath coming in hoarse gasps.

“We're still what?” John pushes, sliding his thumb over the slick tip of Paul's prick.

“Ah, fuck…” Paul sighs. “Please don't stop…”

“You can be so polite when you want to be,” John observes. 

Paul arches his back and then butts his head against John's chest like a cat.

“Please, John,” he groans.

“Still what?” John asks again, halting his stroking hand.

“We're still us. John and Paul. No matter what.”

Paul shoots all over his chest, his face twisted with pleasure. John runs a hand over the sticky mess and laughs in relief.

“Filthy,” he says.

Paul takes his hand and the come seeps between their intertwined fingers. It feels like a blood oath.

When Paul shakes him awake the sun is already setting.

“Why'd you let me sleep so long?”

Paul is already dressed, freshly shaven, his hair combed. He's fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. His collar is crooked and John longs to straighten it.

“You seemed so peaceful. I have to meet Jane, can you see yourself out?” Paul asks.

John nods and yawns, rubs his eyes. Paul leans down and rubs his nose against his temple.

“John...It's...I'll need to spend some time with Jane...you know, just in the wake of the engagement…”

A kind of chill is spreading through John's chest. He holds his breath. _John and Paul, no matter what._

“John, are you listening?”

By the time John gets home it's pitch black outside. The house feels empty, deserted, like an untended crypt even though Cyn and Jules are home and in bed. John kicks off his shoes and lights a joint. He sits by the window staring out into the dark garden beyond. There's a prickling just beneath his skin. His bones hurt with premonition. This is where Paul leaves him, he thinks. Like Blackpool all those years ago with his dad. Dizzy from the rides and sick from too much candy. His head full of the great new life Fred promised him. He promised he'd never leave him again right before he walked away without looking back.

She picks up on the first ring. As if she's been waiting for his call.

“Hello,” she says.

He'd forgotten the sound of her voice. So small, strange and child-like. A rosebud of a voice. A cherry blossom.

“It's John,” he says. “Lennon. John Lennon.”

“I know who it is, John,” she says.

He doesn't speak for a long moment and she doesn't push him. The silence feels comfortable. That's what makes him say what he says next, the fact that he feels safe with her.

“I wanted to see you,” he says decisively.

“Did you? You weren't so sure last time.”

“Yes,” he says simply.

He's still not sure. All he can think is he needs armour. He needs to protect himself from the pain of Paul's desertion. No, not armour. He needs a weapon.

“Alright then, John,” she says.

She's the dagger he uses in self-defense.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Whereitwillgo for the prompt.  
> And Twinka and Drearymondays.


End file.
